“It was pathetic, Regan,” she continues. “There I was, holding a bag of curried chicken, standing in the lobby of Orexis, looking like a total . . . groupie.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. I’m sure whatever reason he had for canceling has nothing to do with you,” I say, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. There’s no sense in telling Zoe he was with me instead. Even though it was sort of an emergency situation, it would still hurt.
But it seems like she’s already two steps ahead of me. “Listen, I don’t want to intrude, or interfere. I really like Patrick, and I thought you guys were just friends. But if I’m wrong and you’re more than that and he’d rather be with you, then . . .”
Before she can finish her thought, the recessed lights in the ceiling flicker and the sliding doors begin to open. Mr. Von Ziegelstein stands up and turns on the microphone pinned to his jacket.
“There’s an early dismissal due to American Education Night,” he says, his voice like sandpaper against wood. “Thank God for small miracles.”
The room buzzes with shouts of joy and celebration, everyone excited to get out of detention early.
“Are you going?” Zoe asks.
“To . . . American Education Night?” The only time I ever went to American Education Night was when Patrick, as the valedictorian of his class a couple of years ago, was asked to speak. And even then, my parents and I found an excuse to leave shortly after he was done.
She nods.
I hesitate. “Um—I would, if I didn’t already have plans . . .”
“Regan,” she says, smiling. “I’m just joking. No one would be caught dead there.”
I attempt a grin as we grab our bags and begin to file out of the lecture hall with our fellow delinquents. When we start to march down the steps together, she says, “You didn’t answer me.”
I look at her, confused.
“About Patrick,” she says.
“Patrick and I are friends,” I say resolutely.
At the bottom of the stairs, we’re separated briefly by a massive throng of people that’s clogging up the exits. I press my way through, heading toward the door, every now and then checking to make certain Zoe is okay. Once we make it into the hall, she grabs my arm, pulling me off to the side so she can talk to me privately.
“You’re sure there’s nothing going on between you guys?” she asks again.
On any other day, I would have said absolutely not. But if I denied it right now, that would be a lie, wouldn’t it? There is something going on between Patrick and me—something mysterious and unfamiliar and actually kind of scary. Still, I can’t avoid her follow-up question. That might give her the wrong idea entirely.
As soon as the words “We’re just friends, I swear” escape my lips, I look over Zoe’s shoulder and my gaze lands on my locker, which is about twenty-five feet away from us. Josh is there, waiting for me, leaning up against the wall. His hands are tucked in his pockets, and the sleeves of his gray sweater are bunched up around the elbows. He turns, staring directly at me.
I inhale sharply, my pulse accelerating. Zoe waves her hand in front of my face, breaking the spell.
She turns around to see who is vying for my attention. When she realizes that it’s Josh, her lips twist up into a smirk. “Looks like I don’t have to worry about competing with you for Patrick after all.”
I flinch a little bit, thinking about that moment Patrick tried to steal a kiss from me in Elusion, but when Josh smiles like he’s eager to talk to me, I tell myself that Patrick’s brief romantic overture was just my imagination.
“I think Buzz Cut has a thing for you,” Zoe says with excitement. “He asked me for your InstaComm info in calc, and if I thought you’d go to Elusion with him. He’s totally scoping for a hookup, right?”
I give her a look that’s covered in pessimism, but I can’t deny the fluttering in my chest. “I doubt it, Zoe.”
“Well, don’t keep us in suspense, then!” she says, practically pushing me in Josh’s direction.
I stumble forward a little, cursing under my breath at Zoe for making me look ungraceful. But then I steady myself and take a step and then another, moving toward him as I unzip the front compartment of my bag and pull out my passcard. But the closer I get, the more I detect this nervous energy coming from him, and not the good, happy kind. In fact, his eyes are kind of bleary, and his forehead is creased with worry.
“Hey,” he says, stepping to the right just enough so that I can swipe my card and open my locker.
I grab my school blazer off an inside hook and say hello, hoping he doesn’t hear the happy, nervous lilt in my voice. I don’t usually wear my emotions on my sleeve with just anyone, but he’s beginning to turn into an exception.
Josh crosses his arms in front of his chest and leans in toward me, like he’s about to conspire with me. “Do you have plans this afternoon?” he whispers.
“Not really. Why?”
“I need to take you somewhere,” he says.
I close my locker door, my heart skipping beats. Zoe was right. Josh is here to ask me out. I try to think of some witty, flirty reply as I turn back toward him. But when I see how his lips are pressed together in a tense, straight line and how his chest is rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths, all I can say is, “What’s wrong?”
Josh looks down at the floor, almost like he can’t bear to respond, but after swallowing hard, he does.
“Everything,” he says.
EIGHT
“MIND DOING SOMETHING ILLEGAL?” Josh asks.
We’re outside an abandoned factory on the outskirts of the Steel Sector, our O2 shields working at maximum levels. The helmets were too heavy, so we swapped them out as soon as we arrived. There aren’t air meters out here, but it doesn’t matter. Everyone in Detroit knows that the toxins in this area are worse than anywhere else in the city because the wind barrels through here like a dust storm, carrying all the pollutants from the refineries. As I glance up at the oil clouds that block all traces of the sun, and see tiny, gray particles flitting around, I’m reminded that one unfiltered breath in a red zone could lead to burns on the inside of my throat and cysts on my lungs.
“I don’t know,” I say, eyeing the eight-foot chain-link fence surrounding the old abandoned building and the looming sign warning trespassers to keep out. “How illegal is it?”
“We have to hop this so we can look around,” he says, his voice totally audible through the clear breathing shield covering his nose and mouth. “There’s something inside you need to see.”
I can’t imagine what he means by that. My dad’s HyperSoar hangar wasn’t too far from here, and I’m familiar with this neighborhood, which isn’t all that impressive. When Patrick and I were kids, Dad would take us up for sonic flights across the Great Lakes, and when we came in for a landing, we’d descend over the large industrial fields made up of nondescript rectangular structures that housed the assembly-line workers who helped piece together everything from Florapetro-fueled cars to eighteen-wheel semis. I had heard the place had gone downhill in the past few months, and judging by the broken windows and the boarded-up entryways, the rumors are true.